The Short Journal Entry
by BatThing
Summary: What does Tim Drake think about in his head at times? I wondered that and created this fanfiction to suit that want to know question.


The Short Journal Entry:

By: The Batthing

Today has been rough… I sit here, at my desk, listening to a fading song that is stuck on repeat. Gonna have to make this short, you know, my arm can't handle it… cause it's messed up. It's screwed, and I can't do much about it. Alfred took a look at it… gave me instructions… nothing is happening though… it still is screwed. My arm is screwed and no one is doing anything about it! Not only that I'm screwed. My body is. I am sitting here, fighting the sleeping pill that's meant to 'help me' sleep. Meanwhile my medication for my arm is working for on my two pulled muscles. Crap, this is hard, the pulled one in my leg and the pulled one under my arm.

My chest hates me, don't know why, but it's screwed. Has been for a year. Yet hey, see if that matters! My body is rejecting me and I am sitting here crying and deciding better write. Crap, crap, crap. I wish they had medication I could snarf down for this. Chest kills at any slight movement… any slight problem. Fail a test, pain. Get hurt, more pain. Feeling low, pain that's unbearable.

Alfred thinks I'm coming down sick. Yeah, exactly right Alfred! No, what's happening is my body is screwed and just even a little exercise kills it! Stomach is screwed, can't eat. Friends are saying I'm starving myself. I'm not though. God knows I'm not! I just can't do this! I mean I need to get my screwed self to a doctor, yet that is impossible. I eat at dinner and that's it, then I crouch besides the toilet feeling like I'm going to puke. Never do.

Bruce is angry with me, and he shows it. He totally ignores me, talks to everyone but me. The when I do one thing wrong he yells. I could show him or Alfred my screwed arm, stomach, and muscles, but I'm too scared. It'll all pass. God, it hurts to do this! I mean I'm in my room wishing that there might be some way that I could cry.

Barbara e-mailed me. It felt cool to talk to someone who understands. She told me I can get through this, and am doing fine, and should talk to Bruce or Alfred. She's just being nice, one of the few who are. I just want to put my head down and cry. But hey, that's not going to happen!! The truth is I CAN NOT fight crime. Dude, I wish I could. All I do is stand around with Batman or Batgirl and smile at the stupid criminals like I'm the one who takes them down! But I'm not a superhero. Dick was so good at being Robin, and then I came along. I trash the name to a state of oblivion. I'll keep trying though. I'll keep trying, and keep being laughed at, and disgraced. God, show me I can get through this and become as good as Dick… then maybe Bruce will like me. Even if he doesn't, nothing else frees me like being out late at night feeling the city lights flash above your head as you go soaring through the sky. It's like I'm unbeatable. Like I might actually be a good Robin.

I want to step out into a dark opening where some thugs are making trouble and I want them to be scared of me, like they were of Dick when he was Robin. Yet all I get is laughs. I hope my arm heals fast, and hope it's nothing serous. I want to go out with Barbara and go around the city… I don't want them to do something that takes away the mask of Robin. I don't need to go through that right now!

But knowing Bruce, I am past the limit. All he sees when he looks at me is a screwed up kid. I can see it in his eyes, the shame. I'm a messed up kid… these days… screwed up. I'm scared of it. My body is quivering and my eyes are blurring… dude those sleeping pills work!

If they take it away, if they make me stop being Robin, then all I'll be is some screwed up kid, nothing more. No secrets, no going through the night and having a secret identity. I'll walk down the school halls and know I am nothing special, just a messed up, pardon me, screwed up KID! I'm so scared of that, so scared… I could use a hug from someone right about now.

My arm is shaking in pure pain as I stretch it so I can write this all down. I had better stop so I can spare it from being screwed for tomorrow, school you know. That sleeping medication is pulling me in and I am starting to bow to it. I had better head in.

Maybe Barbara is right, maybe I am learning and am slowly becoming like Dick was. Maybe one day I will be like Dick, maybe one day there will be a new Robin who writes this out, and wonders if he builds up to me. Maybe, just maybe.

I'm going to be like Dick, I don't care what anyone says, I am going to be like him. I am going to learn to fight just like he did. I am going to learn to do things like he did. Maybe then they all we like me.

The sleeping pill has won, so I am going to become a slave to it and head to bed.


End file.
